


Dirty Dance Floors and Dreams of Naughtiness

by Pluppelina



Series: I Need Some Fine Wine And You Need To Be Nicer [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Jim is a suicidal maniac, M/M, Self-Harm, not that Sebastian seems to mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-26
Updated: 2012-05-26
Packaged: 2017-11-06 01:23:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pluppelina/pseuds/Pluppelina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sebastian passes the final test and Jim is rendered speechless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Dance Floors and Dreams of Naughtiness

Sebastian has just done the shopping, has been gone for an hour tops when he comes back to find Jim standing in the hallway with a bloody knife in his left hand and a deep, bleeding gash in his right arm. It takes Sebastian a moment to take the sight in and once he has, he drops the groceries. One fucking hour ago, Jim had been fine.

“Look, Bastian,” Jim says. His tone is unreadable and the look on his face is horrifying. “I’m bleeding. That means you’re not doing your job right.”

The last sentence delivered like a punch line; like a punch to the guts. No matter what, this can’t ever happen again. Ever. Sebastian makes a plan in his head in half a shocked second, maps it all out. He won’t ever be able to leave Jim alone again, will he? He’ll have to bring Jim out for shopping, or send someone else to do it. He’ll have to take Jim along everywhere he goes, for all of his hits, and he’ll have to follow Jim to all Jim’s meetings. They’ll be so much less time effective, now. He’ll even have to stop smoking because the things Jim could do to himself during a three minute smoke break are too many and too horrible to contemplate. 

The shock finally lets him go.

“The fuck...” Sebastian mumbles, but it’s just his mouth running on autopilot. He rushes up to Jim and grabs first the knife, throws it over his shoulder, unimportant, just get rid of it, and then his arm. Fuck. Fuck. He’s been told before that he ought to be afraid of Jim Moriarty, but this is the first time ever he experiences any such thing regarding the other man. He might be sadistic and a psychopath, but he’s never done anything like this before.

“Sebastian...” he starts, but Sebastian doesn’t hear him. He’s way too focused on his arm, on the wound. Not doing your job right. Sebastian always does his job right. He pulls his own jacket off, and then his shirt, and presses that tightly to Jim’s arm. Okay. Pressure. Good. What else? Stitches, will it need stitches? Sebastian’s stitches leave fucking ugly scars but it’ll have to do, because Jim doesn’t want hospitals, doesn’t need hospitals, and they don’t have the time.

“Do you have a first-aid kit?” he asks, fuck, why doesn’t he know that, he should know that, where is it? In the bathroom, in the kitchen? Fuck, he has no idea. Bathroom. Bathroom sounds best. He doesn’t even wait for an answer. “Let’s go.”

Jim goes with him surprisingly willingly into the bathroom and that’s enough to snap Sebastian out of his initial panic. If Jim is capable of that, things aren’t as bad as they seemed, and Sebastian can afford to take a moment to actually evaluate his boss’ mood. He looks at Jim’s face then, actually looks at it. It still shows signs of distress, but there’s a certain light in his eyes. He’s in there, somewhere, and that is such a relief. Whatever this is, Sebastian probably won’t have to stop smoking after all.

“It’s in that cabinet,” Jim says indicating it with his head, and Sebastian nods. This is better. Jim is better. He slows down; he can afford to slow down.

“Can you hold this?” he asks, looking down at the make-do compress. Jim nods, putting his hand on Sebastian’s. Jim’s hands are usually cold but now it’s warm, warm from the adrenaline rush of this, and Sebastian has no idea why Jim did this but it’s obvious that it felt good to him.

He lets Jim hold it for himself and goes to get the first aid kit, which of course contains sutures, because this is Jim Moriarty’s home and Jim needs to be prepared for anything. He sets everything up on the side of the bathtub quickly, and Jim sits down next to the supplies. Good. He’s really there and he’s willing to make this better. Good.

“This is gonna leave a fuck of a scar,” Sebastian warns as he breaks an antiseptic wet wipe out. 

“I’m counting on it,” Jim murmurs, and Sebastian doesn’t understand what he’s trying to say, but he’s still bleeding and that takes priority. Jim moves his shirt out the way and Sebastian cleans the wound quickly, before he goes on to stick the needle in. He doesn’t bother with any anesthetics and he doesn’t think that Jim minds. This is so obviously on purpose.

“I’m not gonna ask,” Sebastian says, not meeting Jim’s eye, “but whatever you need, I’m here.”

Jim blinks down at him as if he’s surprised, and for a moment Sebastian thinks that Jim is going to lean down and kiss him. He doesn’t.

“If you had found me incoherent and dizzy on the floor instead, what would you have done?”

Sebastian thinks, his head still in combat mode, and it doesn’t take him long to figure it out even as he makes the stitches.

“Pulled you in here, stuck my fingers down your throat and forced some charcoal into your mouth.” 

There’s a tense little silence during which Sebastian doesn’t look up into his boss’ face, but rather debates whether he should’ve confirmed what Jim took with his empty pill bottles first, but decides that would’ve been a waste of time.

He puts the needle away and gets a big band-aid over the wound. The bleeding has stopped. This will do. Good. Now, he can move on to the next issue. He wonders how he will be able to discuss this without asking any leading questions, but perhaps he doesn’t have to solve this. Perhaps he just has to be there. He looks up to face Jim. “For how long do you need me to be on alert for these situations?”

Jim smiles down at him, still with traces of tears on his face, and just shakes his head in total silence for a moment. This has never happened before and it feels strangely foreboding.

“Sebastian Moran... If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that I loved you.”

It takes him a moment to respond to that, but it isn’t because he doesn’t know what to say. It is because his very mentally unstable boss has practically just told him that it’s his job to clean him up after suicide attempts for as long as it takes, and that that isn’t crossing the line, either. He doesn’t even care. “Then I must be doing something right.”


End file.
